


my tender one, my inexpressible delight

by gabriphales



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gentle Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Praise Kink, Service Top, Tit-fucking, VERY mild but its there, because you know, of course that had to happen, somewhat????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27371152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: crowley likes being taken cared of, even if it makes him feel a little helpless. (perhapsbecauseit makes him feel that way.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	my tender one, my inexpressible delight

**Author's Note:**

> the title is literally from a loveletter vladimir nabokov wrote his wife im sure he'd be so happy to know it's being used for an 18 yr old's smut fic anyways !!! glad i got this finished when my seasonal mental issues kicked in on top of my normal mental issues right as i started writing it lmao

he doesn't like having to ask for it. most of the time, aziraphale just _knows._

the little hints crowley keeps dropping help move things along, of course. shrouding in on himself, hunching slightly, as if desperate to seem shorter, smaller. when aziraphale reaches for his back, rubs a hand along his spine, crowley’s shoulders flinch - they're rubbed better soon after. aziraphale kisses at the back of his neck, his warm mouth moving over the fine knob that jaunts out there delicately. smothering him as if they were kissing mouth to mouth, over attentive, and fixated on ruining crowley’s composure.

still, just when crowley starts to properly lean into him, aziraphale lets go. moving away, and returning to his baking. the bloody _tease._ crowley won't stoop to whining just yet. he shuffles up behind aziraphale, arms curved around him, slung over his shoulders, as crowley tries to get a better look at the dough he’s molding. his fingers carve a gentle, plump state out of it, fluffing it up, and giving it one last good knead before turning to face crowley.

“here, dearest,” he says, reaching from the cupboard behind them, and pulling out a knife, plopping it in crowley’s hands. “you can chop up the vegetables, if you're so eager to help.”

and crowley doesn't have room, nor want to argue. because there's already parsley on the cutting board, and the knife is awfully big, oversized for the measly task at hand, so he knows _exactly_ how aziraphale is expecting this to turn out. he’s giving crowley an opportunity, the chance to be tended to, cared for as the sole receiver of aziraphale’s attention. treating him like a child poking ‘round in the kitchen, in need of a distraction, and then leaving him to his own devices.

well, something’s bound to happen, when a helpless demon’s by himself for too long.

he lets the knife slip ever so slightly on the fourth or fifth chop, the moment aziraphale’s left the room. and he’s still clutching at his hand when he gets back, pretending to be bashful when aziraphale spots the red pinpricks gathering at his thumb, hiding it behind his back.

“crowley,” aziraphale says, quite satisfyingly stern. “let me have a look at it. i need to see if you're hurt.”

“‘m not,” crowley insists, twisting his head to the side, and pinching his eyes fiercely shut to avoid aziraphale’s gaze. he backs up against the counter, but that only makes it easier for aziraphale to close in on him. snatching up his wrist with a strength often unused, and pulling it forwards as his hips press into crowley’s own, keeping him in place.

“well,” he tsks softly. “doesn't look too bad, nothing worse than a paper cut. but you’ve got to be more _careful.”_

crowley hadn't liked the chiding bit before, the last times they did this. it had only been a necessary evil to add pretense, further deepen his headspace. but now, he finds he’s grown quite the taste for it. savoring how his cheeks flush hot, and shame envelops him in a simmering, humid glow. beneath aziraphale’s tender, yet condescending stare, he’s fidgeting uncontrollably. overwhelmed and understimulated at the same time. he nods his head, mumbled out something quick and weakly reassuring - “'course, i’ll mind myself from now on. just, er, let me go.”

aziraphale smiles. warmly, sweetly, his eyes crinkling with it. his grip is no less tight, and crowley’s weakening.

“c’mon, angel, just - “ he falters on a step back, kicking his ankle into the cupboard doors below, and holding onto the counter for stability. “let go?”

aziraphale reaches around him, curves an arm against his back, and props him close to his chest, exactly where he’ll be safest. _so warm._ crowley struggles not to fall into him completely. 

“i’d much rather keep a closer eye on you than that, you see,” aziraphale murmurs like a comforting mother, stroking at crowley’s back soothingly. “what if you have another little mishap, worse than this one, and i’m not here to help?”

“i suppose we’ll all be lost to the horror of it all.” crowley laughs, or at least tries to - aziraphale isn't making that easy for him. his prying, kind eyes are digging into him, looking for something crowley can't place. the laughter dwindles before it even really starts aziraphale’s hand traces over crowley’s cheek, his knuckles against a jaunting cheekbone, and he leans in to tempt crowley into joining their lips together. crowley concedes eagerly; how could he not?

it’s a golden warm safety, basking him in all sorts of comfortable, cozy colors. crowley melts with him, melts _from_ him, and aziraphale can clearly tell. his tongue flits sweet over crowley’s lower lip, dares to lick inside, right against that tender spot on the roof of his mouth. crowley trembles, squirming where he stands, and losing his footing the more he shuffles. 

finally, aziraphale pulls him forwards, and crowley can't even keep balance. he stumbles, nearly falling over until aziraphale catches him. an arm under his knees, and the other at his back as he lifts him onto the counter.

“what did i tell you about being careful, dear?” aziraphale croons, tugging at crowley’s wrist, and pressing a kiss to his injured thumb. his lust doesn't go unsatiated for too long - soon enough, he’s letting his lips part, sucking him into a velvet-smooth interior. it’s warm and soft on the inside; aziraphale makes sure to swipe his tongue across the stinging cut, tempting another flinch from crowley. wincing isn’t enough to stop him once he’s begun. and aziraphale is more than determined to make an absolute show of this - suckling at the tip of his thumb like he would his cock, lapping up the slightest tinge of blood instead of precum. 

“ouch,” crowley whispers, uninspired. “if you’re trying to teach me a lesson, y’know, you could just - er, uh, just rail me instead. real hard, to knock the lesson in.”

and aziraphale gives him that look, that pointed, thin line of a grin that is all too painfully polite. his brows raise, as if to say _’you’re not getting out of this that easily,’_

“i know that's what you’d prefer, wicked old thing.” he muses, tugging the sweater - one that he’d stolen from aziraphale, no doubt - from his body. his jeans are the next token of sacrifice, pulled down, and neatly folded on the floor by a spare miracle. crowley’s shivering now, it's far colder in the kitchen than in their cozy, kitschy little bedroom. but it would seem that's what aziraphale wants from him. vulnerability, seeking comfort without recourse. crowley clings onto him, curls his legs around his waist, and pleads, “in the bedroom, angel. don't want to out here.” 

aziraphale nods, breaking character for a moment as he says, “of course, tad bit too chilly tonight.” 

brought up in strong, stable arms, crowley finds himself unable to resist holding tighter as he’s carried elsewhere. hiding his face in aziraphale’s neck, and humming at the sweet scent he can't avoid there. of the many advantages that come with his serpentine history, heightened senses like smell and touch and taste are often too overwhelming to be useful. but not with aziraphale. he’s only ever been just enough for crowley to enjoy, drinking down that faint aroma without any hangover period.

the bedroom is far better suited for this, it seems. aziraphale lets crowley down carefully, helping him onto the bed until it's clear he can lay back on his own. he’s throbbing between his legs by now, hot and hard in his briefs. aziraphale doesn't waste any time in rousing him further. he mouths over the firm bulge, his lips caressing, enveloping the head of his cock through fabric.

“angel,” crowley gasps, breath hitching as he tries to gather himself. “can't - don't think i can wait.”

and aziraphale pulls back with a knowing, cheeky smile, cupping over his cock with a soft palm. “but darling . . . “

he slips down crowley’s briefs, fingers circling the base of his shaft, and applying the dantiest trace of pressure there. crowley sighs in relief, hips arching up as if on command, moving like a well-trained dog follows tricks. 

“i intend to take my time with you. after all, you gave me such an _awful_ scare back there.” aziraphale pouts, slipping his thumb over crowley's slit, and rubbing until the press went slick and sticky with precum. crowley winces at first, momentarily shook by the sudden rush of pleasure, all the attention directed entirely at him. 

aziraphale soothes him with a fainter touch, stroking gently, spreading the sensation out, so it's not so intensely focused. “isn't it only fair i get to take care of you, make sure you're safe and sound?”

crowley groans, twisting his head to the side, and muttering a feeble, “bastard.”

“indeed, i must be,” aziraphale purrs like a cat licking its paws clean. “for how long i’ve kept you waiting, _yearning_ for me.”

crowley gulps, the hard lump of want in his throat impossible to keep down. “yeah, i mean - look at me.”

and he gestures at his erection, the proud, overworked thing. tall and red at the top, much like himself. he tries to laugh, brush the pleas off as something humorous, but aziraphale won't let him. no, he pouts all too sympathetically, quirks his tight knit brow in a mockery of thought, and then - jesus _christ._

he’s got an idea. that can't be good. the impish, delightful glint in his eyes is like staring at the sun’s reflection in a car window. crowley can't bear it, he's forced to close his eyes, looking away.

“oh?” aziraphale giggles, and crowley can hear the sound of cloth rustling, clothes being pulled away, can feel the bed shifting as the angel sits up.

“such a shy little thing,” his voice is closer now, followed by his hands, one against crowley’s cheek, the other loose around his cock, grasping it in place. “aren’t you sweet?”

and crowley opens his eyes, because he just _has_ to, it’s too much to tear himself away from seeing his lover like this, and dear _lord_ in the heavens above - well, she certainly had no part in this. aziraphale’s mischief is is a trait all his own, entirely uninfluenced by any outside spectator, holy or not. this is _entirely_ aziraphale’s idea, with that darling little smirk on his face, teasing and full of pride. he’s dressed down, left in only his undershirt, and even that’s unbuttoned. pressed forwards, with his chest against crowley’s pelvis, decolletage on full, plump display, it’s obvious what he’s got planned. he maneuvers himself, shuffles crowley’s cock right between the soft, plush swell of his cleavage, and it’s so _nice._ nice is the only appropriate word for this, nice like his angel, nice like everything aziraphale believes crowley can be. it feels so right, tighter than he would’ve imagined, just a gentle press around him as he thrusts up, bucks his hips sheepishly.

“don’t want to hurt you,” he worries at his bottom lip, teeth clenching thin flesh taut, until aziraphale’s mouth parts, still stuck in that round little pout, and he suckles against the pulsing head of crowley’s cock. it’s an immediately jolt of heat, warmth that takes hold of him quietly, kindly. slow, and to the tune of the night-clouds shifting outside. crowley’s chest tightens, he can’t stop holding his breath, and now that his hips are moving, he’s not entirely sure he can stop them either. aziraphale only encourages his cracking restraint, strong hands against the bony curves of his body, pushing him, pulling him, offering aid as he fucks desperately.

“so good,” he pants, his voice tight and wavering, wobbly, like he’d forgotten how to use it in the short amount of time he’d spent not begging. “angel, please, i - i can’t,”

“you’re alright,” aziraphale coos at him, speaking down in a high, lilted voice. as if he were talking to a puppy, an adorable, fragile little creature. it makes crowley’s chest flutter and turn in on itself. he loses his voice once more. there’s no point in speaking with aziraphale’s hands on him, aziraphale around him, aziraphale _everywhere,_ just for him, solely for his sake.

“just breathe,” aziraphale tells him, not missing the way crowley wiggles and rutches around, his head tossed from side to side, quivering puffs of air escaping loose lips. “let me take care of you, let me love you, just like you deserve, like you’ve always deserved.”

and when crowley cums because of that - there’s no point in avoiding the truth, aziraphale takes an only _slightly_ sadistic pleasure in making him cum with words - his hands flail openly, clambering about on the bedsheets, in the air that feels so chilly compared to the warmth of their bodies together, until aziraphale takes them, and their fingers link together, knuckles pressed along side by side. he doesn’t let go, not when crowley settles into his afterglow - or after _shakes_ , might be a better word. not when he complains of being tired, needing to shift positions, and rolls aziraphale onto his side so they might cuddle better that way. not even when the air has grown cool, almost _cold_ and it’s obvious they really ought to clean up, get things sorted in order.

he only lets go when crowley pulls away, rubbing his weary eyes, and grumbling, “need a bath now.”

and he smiles, for the first time that night, without any sort of ulterior intent behind his gaze. “of course, my dear boy, you must be terribly worn down. bubbles?”

“obviously,” crowley scoffs, letting himself be plucked up, and carried off to the bath without so much as a single, whining complaint.

**Author's Note:**

> * to the tune of nancy sinatra * these tits were made for fucking, and that's just what they'll do


End file.
